


Lucky

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 05:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes





	Lucky

It feels good to blend in, to put on a Brooklyn Dodgers cap and plain clothes and meld with every other American man and woman out on the city street. He’s never been one for Mardi Gras festivities, but here he is, with his hands pocketed weaving his quiet way through drunken clusters of people, all friends or drunk enough to act like friends. 

There’s something strange about the way he intermingles with other people, and he knows it. There must be something that makes him stand out as someone who isn’t from this time, someone who doesn’t belong. There are half-naked men and topless women, and even that doesn’t solidify him into the moment, doesn’t give him a grasp on what it means to be a part of what he’s experiencing, the disconnection of knowing he belongs somewhere else.

He’s staring up at a long line of balconies, wondering how many of the people hanging over the railing with colorful beads all clumped around their necks will end up in the ER by the time the night is over, when a young woman shoves into his left shoulder. He looks at her; she walks past him, turns, and clears the few steps between them, taking him arm in arm. The look on her face sets him on edge, but he keeps walking, lazily, lingering around like someone alone at a Mardi Gras fair might.

“Everything okay?” he asks, as inconspicuously as he can manage. The top of her head comes right to his shoulder, and he has to bend his head down to speak to her. 

“Just walk,” she says, glancing up at him, smiling a natural smile. Her glittery green eyeshadow is smudged, her face flushed and the baby-soft hair along her hairline is stuck to her skin with sweat. She’s fully dressed, at least. He nods, just walks.

They go along together as if they’ve known one another for years, walking arm in arm, easily. He feels her glancing over her shoulder, now and then, giving one final look and settling in step beside him. The feeling of her gently unwinding her arm from his causes him to look at her, pulling his attention.

“Sorry. Thank you. There was someone,” she doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Yeah. No, that’s fine. I’m happy to help.” He smiles, softly even beneath a thousand garish decorative purple and green lanterns, made softer by the thick, tidily groomed beard he’s been keeping. 

For what feels like a long stretch of silence, they stand there until the girl reaches out to wind her arm back around his. “Can we,” she begins a question and, again, doesn’t finish, trailing off. But he’s good at filling in the empty space, and does, smiling again.

“Yeah. Come on. I’ve never, uh. I’ve never seen anything like this. Except on TV,” he lies. He hasn’t even watched it on TV, only heard stories about it from Bucky, who always would revel in festivities like these.

“You’re kidding.” She looks up at him; he’s not. “Huh.”

“Yeah. First time for everything, right?” He grins down at her, gently guiding her around a stumbling figure, his hand briefly at the small of her back. “I’m Steve,” he calls down to her over the din of fair-goers. She doesn’t offer her name in return, but nods, smiling at him. “Steve. Nice to meet you,” she says.

They’re quiet again. Down toward the end of the street, the crowd begins to thin out, trickling into other parts of the city. The nameless girl walking arm in arm with him has been, for the past while, pointing out hole in the wall restaurants and trinket shops while Steve listens, happy to have company. It isn’t that he’s lonely. No, not really. But he’s so rarely in the company of anyone but himself, it’s easy to mistake that solitude for loneliness. Sometimes it certainly feels that way. 

The girl has gone quiet, walking with her free hand resting on his forearm. He wants to dislodge his arm and drape it around her shoulders, pull her in close to his side, under his arm, but doesn’t, leaving well enough alone.

“My apartment is a few buildings down,” she says, looking up at him as they walk. “You’re welcome to make sure I get to my door safely.” The girl curls her fingers into his jacket sleeve and gives him dark, sweet doe eyes, somehow charming in a halo of vibrant eyeshadow.

“Of course. I’ll walk you up.”

Hers is the next building down, a brownstone that must cost an entire paycheck of “living wages”, just judging the area alone. Steve motions for her to take the steps in front of him, falling in behind her, pointedly refusing to look at the way the thin material of her black floral dress clings to her waist, or the way the lines of her bare back are still glossy with sweat, or how the muscle of her calves tightens as she ascends the front stair. The muscle in his jaw clenches and he stops at the building’s entrance.

“Why are you stopping there?” she asks, letting herself inside. She stands in the doorway, waiting for him. “Come on. I wanna show you something.” The girl pauses. “Eyeshadow comes off first, though.”

There’s a moment of hesitation from Steve, who cedes quickly after, not wanting to give off the impression that he’s disinterested, and not wanting to give off the worse impression: that he’s expecting something and has misread her intentions completely.

She takes him by the hand, leading him up a flight of stairs to an elevator, and holds his hand in hers, standing close enough to him in the elevator to rest her head against his shoulder as they’re carried to the eighth floor of the building.

It’s sad, Steve thinks - a little pathetic, actually - that the least amount of physical contact brings heat to the back of his neck and color to the apples of his cheeks. All things considered, maybe no one would blame him. Tentatively, all the same, he gently untangles his fingers from hers and slides his arm across her back, laying his hand on her hip, the rough pad of his thumb stroking at the thin chiffon laying smoothly over her flank.

Smoothly, gently, her voice wafts up to him, a soft, “There you go,” that’s meant to encourage him. If there was any mistaking her intentions, they’re clear now as she presses close to him at those words, fingertips stroking the strong line of his jaw, gentling his nerves. 

When the elevator chimes, it feels like it’s snapping Steve out of a daydream. The girl, yet unnamed, slides her hand delicately over his hand there on her hip and curls her fingers around it, stepping out of the elevator with him in tow, onto the apartment floor with its dense, vacuumed navy carpet and oxblood-colored walls.

She lives behind the tenth door down, on the right, and grins up at him while she slips her dress up her smooth leg and fishes a key from underneath the elastic band of her thigh-high stocking. “Girl tricks,” she says, sliding the key in and twisting the deadbolt loose.

Steve thinks there’s an opportunity coming to learn her name as they slip inside and lock the door behind them, but the only indication of who she must be is pictures of her and other people on the wall, mostly women who look like they may be her sisters or cousins or aunts. There’s a wooden block with decoratively distressed teal paint and a red letter “R” in the middle of a cluster of half-burned candles and scraggly, artificial bundles of herbs neatly arranged to frame the initial.

Rachel. Rebecca. Rosemary. Ruth. Ruby. There aren’t many “R” names that Steve can think of.

“You don’t say much,” he hears her saying as she moves through the apartment, taking out her earrings and stepping out of her sharp-heeled shoes.

“I try not to,” Steve says, smiling only faintly, and thankfully the tone of his words is taken as intended. She steps out from behind a corner to look at him, smirking as she tousles her hair around and looks him over, taking up more space in her apartment than anyone ever has, broad-shouldered and with his big hands almost timidly slipped into the pockets of his jeans.

“Whatever suits you, handsome. Make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?”

Steve clears his throat, averting his eyes when she begins to hike up her dress and remove it, pulling it off over her head and leaving her standing in a floral-patterned bra and panties that he tries not to linger on. “Sure, yeah. Thank you,” he manages, shrugging off his jacket, narrowly missing the funny look she gives him, fond and slightly puzzled.

“Beer’s in the fridge, liquor is in the cabinet over the fridge if you know how to mix drinks.”

Steve doesn’t know how to mix drinks. He exhales, relieved when she disappears again and he hears the shower running. He takes hold of the bill of his baseball cap and removes it, ruffling his hand through his hair and hanging the hat on the nearest dining table chair with his jacket. The apartment is small enough that he can smell her body wash as she showers, clean and sweet, but a fragrance that he couldn’t hope to pinpoint as he bends down to reach into her refrigerator for beer, cracking it open between the calluses on his palm and taking a long draft of it.

After a brief span of quiet filled by nothing but the sound of Steve’s sock-feet on the carpet - he’d taken his shoes off by the door before coming any farther into her apartment - and running water, the bathroom goes quiet. He can hear her rustling around in there, but doesn’t listen too closely, not wanting to be intrusive. Steve takes another pull from the beer bottle, sliding his free hand into his pocket. 

When she emerges from the bathroom, she’s naked and fresh-faced, her creamy golden skin flushed from the heat of the shower. Her hair damp and toweled, her make-up gone, she looks younger, more vibrant without the aid of bright color. He notices the soft line between skin that’s a shade lighter than the skin on her shoulder, wondering when was the last time she put herself by the pool in a bathing suit, looking so pretty. 

She approaches him, and Steve sets the beer on the dining table, better to free up his hands to slide them, rough, along the soft skin of her hips as she comes to him, pressing herself close to his body. “This wasn’t really my plan all along,” she admits, or pretends to admit, stretching to wind her arms around his neck.

“Were you really being followed?” Steve asks, eyes narrowed with mock suspicion.

“Mmhm. I was. Well, not followed, maybe. But there was a group of guys eyeballing me and I couldn’t find my friends. Dropped my phone off a balcony, couldn’t call them. It was just a big mess.” She sighs, scratching her fingertips through the lengthy hair at the back of his neck. He smells like soap, clean laundry, his entire aura wholesome and warm.

“Lucky you found me when you did,” Steve says, grinning. He can feel the heat in his own cheeks as she leans up to him, craning her neck to kiss him through a mischievous little smirk. Gently, she takes the soft curve of his bottom lip between her teeth, scrapes the edges of them over his flesh and cradles his jaw between her hands. There’s no need to warn her when he plucks her effortlessly up, lifting her feet off the floor. She winds her legs around his waist and presses her chest to the clean white cotton of his t-shirt.

“My bed,” she says, a simple instruction that puts Steve’s feet obediently into motion, heading in the guessed direction of her room - the only other passage in the apartment that he can see from the dining room, and where she’d come from after her shower. Kissing her, slowly, he makes to pull away to look over her shoulder, but she holds him in place with a soft, “Left,” and he goes as if pulled there, beckoned.

Her room smells faintly of perfume, sweet and soft, not overbearing. The bed is piled with soft, plush blankets and a number of pillows, a bed too vast for only one person to enjoy. He gingerly sets her down on the edge of the bed, her hands going instantly to the buckle of his belt. “Let me,” she tells him, only sparing a glance up to his face as she slides the belt open and unfastens his jeans. She pulls the zipper open and finds him wearing heather gray, Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his cock straining against the cotton. 

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he answers, swallowing, his face flushed, the back of his neck burning.

“Have you never…?” trailing off, not finishing the thought, she watches his eyes while her fingers tentatively tug down the jeans, belt buckle chiming. She drags her fingertips along the hard, thick line of his cock under the fabric, watching his eyelids flutter, the way his mouth softly parts and sighs.

“No, I just,” he begins, swallowing. A pause. “I haven’t, no. Can’t come up with a good lie,” he says, a laugh puffing out of him. 

“Oh, honey. That’s just a shame,” she says, leaning her head down to kiss, mouth at him through the fabric of his underwear. She pushes his jeans down around his thighs, scraping her fingernails along the backs of them, feeling hard, thick muscle. “You let this body go to waste?”

“No,” he answers, or tries to answer. He doesn’t waste his body, no, he puts it to good use, but perhaps not the use that she expects him to say. “I guess, in that way, yeah. I’m. It’s not that I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” she says, gently interjecting. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.” She rubs her soft, warm cheek against his cock, still trapped beneath fabric, nuzzling like a cat marking her territory. Steve touches her hair, still damp, curls his hand around the back of her neck, a warm, heavy weight to encourage her.

“Thank you,” he says, laughing again. 

“Get rid of your shirt.” She’s smirking when she hooks her fingers into the elastic of his underwear. Steve pulls his shirt up over his head and off, not hesitating. Briefly, his knees feel like jelly, his stomach giving a dizzy swoop when she pulls down his briefs and lets his cock rest heavy and hot against her soft, parted mouth. He wads the shirt up and tosses it, his muscled belly tensing under her roaming hands.

He can feel the heat of her mouth even before she opens it fully, anticipating some sensation but not quite so intense as when she opens her mouth and sucks the head of his cock in to the back of her throat. He gasps, a soft, breathless sound, stroking back her hair and widening his stance, shuffling closer to the bed, positioning himself between her spread knees. 

“Ever done that?” she asks after pulling her mouth off his cock, brushing the flat of her tongue against the underside of his head, saliva pooling in the cup of her tongue, slicking the way. 

“No. God,” he breathes, clenching his jaw. There’s nothing near to hold to except for her, and he does, sliding a hand over her shoulder and down her smooth back, bracing himself against her.

“Lie down,” she tells him, and like every order she’s given him so far, he obeys.

She’s laughing when he struggles with his jeans and his boots, only just able to kick them off and slide up onto the bed with a soft, “Come on, don’t laugh,” and laughing, himself. He settles down on his back, nestling his shoulders down into soft pillows as she climbs up over him, perched astride his hips, her pussy slick and squeezed against his cock where it lay against his abdomen, hard enough to ache.

“Do you have any hang-ups? You’re not gonna freak if I hold you down, are you?”

Steve smirks. She can pin him down all she wants, but she’ll never be strong enough to hold him. Still, he crosses his wrists and rests them over his head, giving her the permission she’s looking for to get her hands around his wrists and press her weight into him. Her breasts are level with his face and he cranes his neck, looking up at her, turns his head and opens his mouth against the curve of one, laying warm, wet kisses to her skin. He hears a breath hitch, feels her hips rock forward so that her pussy glides against his cock, pulling a soft, strained sound from him.

She lifts her hips, doesn’t need a hand to guide his cock, as hard as he is, standing at a sharp angle to his belly. He’s anxious to seek the heat of her body, restlessly shifting his hips, but she soothes him with a soft, “Don’t move. Don’t move,” and he stills, letting her sink down onto him, slow, painstakingly slow. Steve clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut on a low groan, fearing for a moment that he’ll come just at the sensation, the heat of her body, the snug fit of her muscles around him. He lifts his head to kiss her and she meets him halfway, kissing him softly, teasingly softly, despite how he seems to want to kiss her harder.

“Easy, tiger,” she says, beginning to move her hips, working them to her favor, trying to get a perfect angle. Just feeling her move has him panting, letting her hold his wrists until her hands slide up and lace their fingers. “God. You’re so thick,” she breathes as if awed, resting over him with his head framed between her forearms, bending down to kiss him. He can tell she’s found a sweet spot by the way her brow furrows, the soft, satisfied sounds she makes as she rides him - he doesn’t have to be experienced to know that the rosy flush on her cheeks is pleasure. 

“You can fuck me,” she pants, letting go of his hands and winding her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of it to kiss the hot surface of his skin. “Fuck me. Please.”

At her insistence, Steve’s hands go to her hips, kneading the soft skin there. It’s a strange place to be in, knowing what to do and knowing that you’ve never done it, but it comes to him as naturally as anything, bracing his feet into the bed and angling his hips up, fucking into her so that she groans tremulously into the crook of his neck, holding tight to him. He has a hand in her hair and one braced at the small of her back when he starts to fuck her in earnest, wanting to watch her, wanting to see her face while he’s thrusting into her. But she wants to hold him, wants to clench her fists in his hair and feel his chest pressed to hers and doesn’t move to look at him, busy enough with kissing his neck all the way up to his ear, sending chills up his arms, responding to the sensation of a soft, hot mouth pressing tenderly to his sensitive skin.

He feels one of her arms move, her hand sliding down between them, but he’s not invested enough to wonder what she’s doing or ask. He knows that suddenly she’s incredibly tight; suddenly all the muscle inside her clutches around him, one desperate, grasping squeeze at his cock and then what feels like a thousand smaller ones, pulses that must be timed with her heartbeat. She arches and whines, tightens her thighs around his hips and moans, pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck. There’s nothing to do but hold her tighter, burying himself deep inside and coming, too - he knows what this feels like, knows what it is to orgasm but has no idea the intensity of it when he’s wrapped up in someone else’s body heat.

Though she doesn’t mind his big hand tightening into a fist in her hair, he’ll apologize for it later, not now, while he’s cursing against her throat, brow furrowed into a deep ridge as he comes, feeling her trembling body shift and squeeze down onto him, tighter and deeper, her hands in his hair again, soothing him. “That’s it,” she whispers, dragging her teeth along his throat, finding his mouth to kiss him. “You feel so nice. You feel so perfect inside me,” she tells him, hazy, dream-like, his pulse beating through his cock until there’s nothing to give her body but the remaining throbbing aches of his orgasm tapering off.

Every nerve singing, Steve shivers, the tension released, his whole body easing out of some knot of wire-taut strain that he didn’t know he’d been carrying until it was gone. When he lays his head back with a groan, eases his grip on her, she’s stroking his hair, sitting upright on his lap to look at him, surveying the little bruising mark she’d left on his throat when he’d been oblivious in his orgasm.

Even the slightest shift of her hips makes him feel like it’s happening all over again, his cock pulsing hard, so sensitive that he quivers when she moves, lets his head fall back into the pillows and laughs at how good it feels, how every sensation is quavering through him, riding on raw nerves.

“Lucky I found you, huh,” she says, not letting him pull out, not yet. Her hands slide up along his chest, fingers passing through his hair as she lowers herself again to kiss him. He catches her lower lip between his teeth, just so delicately.

He sighs, still half-smiling, his face enveloped in a hazy pink flush that touches points: his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids.

“Mhm. Yeah,” he breathes, watching her with sedate blue eyes. “Lucky.”


End file.
